The Beauty of the Thing
by HouseKeeper13
Summary: The Shawshank Redemption. Red reflects on the most beautiful thing in the world. Slash: Red/Andy


**Disclaimer: **I own nothing, but I'm still hoping the rights will make a prison break from Mr. King and come cross the boarder to me!

**Author's Note: **This is my first Shawshank fic. Please read and review. I'm quite proud of it. I got it out of my head and on here in about an hour. Please don't compare it to the short story. I've never read that, and therefore this is only based off of the movie.

The Beauty of the Thing

I used to believe that the most beautiful thing in the world was revenge—the feeling of killing the man whom had beaten me all my life. Killing my father was the most beautiful thing in the world, I was sure of it. I hadn't planned it of course, but the feeling of vengeance was just too beautiful to regret it at the time. I could only think how proud I was of myself and that it "served him right". I was young then—and stupid.

Of course that illusion was shattered when the cops came to arrest me. I didn't try to fight them. I didn't even know to leave town. I guess when it came down to it, I just didn't know enough about killing to kill someone. As soon as the judge stood up from his chair and scowled down at me to tell me I was to serve a life term in prison, then I realized it: justice wasn't the most beautiful thing in the world. The day I arrived at Shawshank I was positive: it may have been the ugliest thing.

I was always a thrifty kid. That was one skill that didn't leave me during my time at Shawshank. I learned pretty quickly how to get things, who to get them from. So I got things for myself. Pretty soon, other guys were trying to get things too. They wanted my help. Who was I to say no to them? I needed some friends for the rest of my life's stay.

The name "Red" was soon associated with "the boy who could get you things". It was true. I could. But I also knew the one lesson my father would always tell me: nothing in life was free. So I took his lesson to heart and began charging the men interest for my services: twenty percent of the cost. It turns out that lesson was the only thing my father was ever good for. I soon learned to appreciate my skills. Turning a profit in a place like this seemed perfect—to me, it was the most beautiful thing in the world. I was able to generate more of a profit here than I ever was on the outside.

As I got older, the faces changed as some men died and some men got out, and new faces came. While I couldn't stop my little business, I learned to not appreciate it so much, the income wasn't good for everything. In fact, it seemed to be good for very little. I was the wealthiest inmate at Shawshank, but what good was it? With age came a new appreciation for beauty. I decided when I was a young man—the most beautiful thing in the world was the one thing I would always be incapable of getting in here, no matter how much money I had: a woman.

My sights were set on Rita Heyworth. She was surely the most beautiful thing in the world. I couldn't very well name something so vague as the most beautiful thing. Beauty of that magnitude needed a name: for me that name was Rita Heyworth. I was sure that she was the most beautiful thing in the world. I had no doubts. I imagine half the reason for her beauty was that she was so inaccessible. I could never have Rita Heyworth, and maybe that's what made her so beautiful. Justice, wealth, all those things were beautiful until they were realized, then they never lived up to expectations. Maybe that's why Rita was so beautiful.

Whatever the reason she remained the most beautiful thing in the world to me—until Andy Dufresne came along, that is.

Looking back Andy always seemed able to turn my life upside down. He showed me a friendship unlike any I had ever had in my life. For a while that seemed like the most beautiful thing in the world—more than Ms. Rita ever could be. Andy enabled me to express myself, find a confidant in someone at Shawshank. He challenged me each and every day, he grounded me. He entertained me. He was my best friend.

Every day Andy taught me something. I'd like to think I taught him something too, but probably not. Still, it seems to be the only reason I can think of as to why he stayed around me. He must have been getting as much out of me as I was out of him. What, I'm not sure of. Watching Andy brave the Sisters without so much as a single complaint, watching him be abused by the other inmates because of his reserved nature, watching the guards abuse him because of his mind, simply seeing his strength fascinated me. Seeing Andy write those damn letters every day in the hope of getting a better library for us men, so we could better ourselves, and so Brooks's work could mean something all mesmerized me. Watching him with Tommy was something else all together. The day Tommy told me that he was innocent, finally realizing that Andy had put up with so much, gotten so little, and had so much passion for improving the lives of people in a place that held people like us who upon learning of Andy's innocence lost all the illusion of having anything in common with him, all gave me faith. The faith in humanity, that someone as perfect as Andy could be for real rejuvenated me. That faith was the most beautiful thing in the world.

However, Andy again managed to show me something more beautiful than faith. His escape showed me a hope I had never allowed myself before. A hope of freedom that had once seemed so unobtainable, managed to make every year after Andy left a little more bearable. I had lost my best friend, and although that pain was more real than anything else in my life, knowing he would have hope for my freedom, knowing that it was possible to keep hope alive, and that freedom was just as real and obtainable I was able to keep going. It all paid off the day that that red ink spelled out those illusive eight letters presented themselves on my file: "accepted". Hope was the most beautiful thing in the world—and Andy had taught me so.

Freedom wasn't as wonderful as I had always imagined. Not that I was surprised after Brooks. Still, my promise to Andy kept me going, my hope keeping me focused. The day I finally got to the oak tree was the best day of my life up until that point. Seeing my hope pay off was wonderful.

The day I saw Andy again was even better. We greeted each other with a hug. We had gone through too much to manage anything less. My fears had been put at ease upon seeing the joy on his features at my return, and seeing the tears in his eyes of happiness had cemented the truth: Andy had missed me as much as I had missed him. What happened next should have taken me by surprise. But it didn't. Nothing about Andy could ever really take me by surprise anymore. Still, when he had put his lips to my ear and whispered in a tone barely audible "I love you Red", it hadn't taken me more than a split second to reply "I love you too Andy". There was no thought on either of our parts. We were running on instinct. Our love was above and beyond a mere friendship, and more than simply a physical attraction. It was more than simply love. It went so much deeper than that. Andy was my soul mate, and I was his.

Making love to Andy that night was perfect. It had taken us both by surprise a little bit, and I had been more than hesitant when he asked me to. It seemed too cruel. I didn't want him associating me with the pain of Shawshank, with the violations of the Sisters. He must have sensed my hesitation when he took my head in his hands and told me that he trusted me because he knew I'd never hurt him. He told me that he wanted this, he wanted me. I told him I loved him as I thrust inside of him, finding a rhythm together that started out slow, building to a frantic pace of two lovers who had been apart far too long. It was desperate with our need for each other.

When we reached our climaxes, Andy coming first, and me following soon after, we collapsed on his bed. Eventually he drifted off to sleep next to me, a contented smile on his lips. I sat there thinking that making love to Andy was the most beautiful thing in the world.

But then I realized the truth. It was more than that. It was everything Andy stood for. Everything he represented. All the friendship he had shown me, all the love I had for him, all the love he had for me. Everything about him was perfect. Everything about him was beautiful.

Andy, as himself, was the most beautiful thing in the world.

And that was the beauty of the thing.

**Fin.**

**Author's Note: **Please read and review!


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